Loved Ones
by AmberKendsLacy
Summary: Noun: A person that you care for, usually a member of your family. "People, naturally enough, want to know that their loved ones are out of danger," Part One of the Definition Saga.


Four weeks after his death, Sherlock Holmes ordered tea at a German café.

Sitting comfortably in the corner of the small coffee house, the once famous detective watched the environment as a whole from his positioned seating as he lightly sipped on the first English Grey he'd had in two months.

The warmth that spread from the cardboard cup was welcoming to his lightly blue fingertips. The cold winds were always particularly harsh in Europe and being that at this moment Sherlock had no insulated and wind resistant four walls to recuperate in after a long day, it was especially nice to feel only heat in his hands.

It was easy to say that his hands missed the warmth of the fireplace next to chair at Baker Street, but not nearly as much as they did the bow and strings of his violin. Still, such luxuries had to be given away in order to chase after the leads he was getting on what was left of the criminal network, once owned and managed by the master criminal Moriarty.

Who was now, unlike the consulting criminal's opponent, definitely dead.

Definitely.

Still, much like the mythical Hydra, where one head was cut down, there were hundreds more waiting eagerly to take its place. The network as a whole needed to be processed and shredded down from the pedestal that was given to them. And that, Sherlock knew would take quite some time. Perhaps long enough for the world to forget his face.

Until then, he would have to take part in the art of deceptive appearance. Even now, as he sat in the corner booth of the German café, there was not one person who could suspect his true identity. The absence of the high collared coat and deer stalking hat that were the first identifying traits were of course gone from his person. But with them went also his curly hair, which was at the moment shaven down to a mere military style buzz cut. His pale skin tone was also livened by attention from the sun, caused by his time spent in India, but was only visible from his hands and face, the rest covered by heavy Camo pants and a long sleeved grey winter jacket.

He was passing as a soldier, or at least one that was away from the battle for the moment.

There was a lead in India that he had been chasing for a time, when he had received a message, from his only contact in England.

 _Urgent._ _52.5167° N, 13.3833° E_

 _-Lazarus_

The Co-ordinates had led him here, and now it seemed there was nothing he could do but to wait for his contact to arrive. All the while he would have to sit there in his disguise and think to himself about what information or news could possibly be so important that it had to interrupt his investigation into the criminal underground.

Being that it was a matter that apparently couldn't be sent through text in the first place, it had the detective wondering about the going ons of England. And whether or not the nation was already falling into such disarray without him despite being absent for only two months. If that were the case then he needed to return earlier than expected.

The small ringing of the small door bell in no way interrupted Sherlock's thought process, but it wasn't completely ignored either. His gaze was sparse on the new patron of the coffee house, being careful to seem uninterested, whilst also watching intently. The new customer ordered their drink before taking the unoccupied table that was two spaces across from his own.

It was easy to identify the person as his English contact, being that they could never resist the pleasures of higher class leisure. Evidence being that their ordered drink was of course an expensive blend of German coffee, and their appearance was one that completely clashed with Sherlock's rugged and tired out form.

Neither looked the other full in the face whilst in the café, instead choosing to enjoy their warm drinks for the next hour. To any other observer of the scene, these two people would be completely unrelated to each other and in fact were worlds apart in both class and financial status. From their appearance and the way they held themselves, right down to even the beverages they had purchased.

No one would ever assume family relation between the two of them.

Mycroft Holmes detested the thought of undercover work, the older Holmes sibling stating once that it had something more to do with 'the noise and the people'. An ironic thought since he was the more socially capable of the two of them. Though perhaps it was that paradoxical view of both detesting people and yet being good at talking to them, that got him into politics.

Sherlock preferred facts over faces, which of course led him into the road of being a detective, though consulting only, since any other situation that had him in an office building… did not work out well.

But even so, unlike the elder of the two, Sherlock had managed to make some kind of emotional connections that could be better described as friendship. (Though according to the lower tabloids of the internet it was a little more than just a friendship. People talk after all.)

The small cardboard cup and porcelain mug that held their drinks were eventually emptied and their time in the café was now considered unwelcome if another drink was not purchased. With this in mind, Sherlock was the first to leave, crushing his cardboard cup in his hand and throwing it into the trash before leaving.

The freezing blast of wind was the first to greet him as he stepped outside, and Sherlock quickly made his way to the small alleyway near the café, more to escape the breeze than anything else. Sherlock stood in the middle of the otherwise empty alley for a time, his freezing hands shoved under his armpits as he waited out the rest of Mycroft's stay in the warm coffee house.

Despite the loud howling in his ears, Sherlock finally heard the small tinkling of the café bell once more, and watched as moments later the figure of his older brother walked past the alley opening, not sparing even momentary glance before continuing on.

Quickly he walked back to the café, wearing the carefully created expression of someone who had forgotten a very important object of theirs. This wasn't an unusual tactic for the Holmes brothers when communicating, and by this point in their professional careers, they were the experts in facial manipulation.

It was a good thing they preferred the world of law and order. Sherlock didn't doubt that Mycroft could have easily outdone Moriarty himself with all the power that was in his little finger.

Sherlock re-entered the café and gave a small apologetic glance to those who gave him a suspicious look. In the mean time it didn't take long to make it back to his table and just as he had suspected, there was an envelope on the chair that he had been sitting on not moments before. He quickly snatched up the envelope and walked back out of the café before anyone could ask the awkward questions.

This pace continued on as he walked past the café, the alleyway, basically as far away from the scene as possible before finally bothering to even look at the envelope itself, never mind what was inside.

The envelope itself was almost impeccably designed to in no way be able to trace back to the elder Holmes brother, not that Sherlock had expected Mycroft to make any kind of mistake. Lazarus was a plan designed by the both of them, a frightening collaboration that barely left a single trace of evidence behind that would be deemed important enough for any representation of Moriarty or other Nation's Governments to find and deduce his involvement.

Being dead certainly helped this factor of course, since most of the 'normal' people don't question the true state of another supposedly deceased person.

When asked why that was, John had described it once as being 'just not cricket'.

Though of course that didn't mean his status was infallible to detection, since according to previous correspondence with his brother/English contact, Anderson had managed to clue in on one of his 'side cases' whilst he was building reliable contacts and leads in India. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes and tried not to think of Anderson, feeling that it in some way would lower his IQ.

Still, it seems that the former police inspector wasn't a complete imbecile as the consulting detective had believed and deduced him to be when they first met if the information about him was true. Perhaps a bit of Sherlock's intelligence was rubbing off on him.

If only the rest of his former department could follow suit.

Anyway, back to the envelope.

Despite how impeccably untraceable it was, Sherlock knew still that after reading and committing the information to memory, that the whole thing would need to be burned the moment he had the chance to do so without seeming suspicious. The smallest percentage of a chance in being discovered by the criminal syndicate that he was chasing was too much of a liability for him. Best it be burned and the ashes thrown in the ocean when he boarded the next boat to his next destination.

There was no writing on the outside of the envelope, nothing to indicate that it was in anyway different from any other unused envelope in the newsagents where it was bought, which was on the other side of the country if the paper texture according to the weather was to be correct (and of course it was). It was very thin in his hand and lightweight. So, it wasn't a new cell phone or map that pinpointed correct co-ordinates this time.

So, that meant it wasn't more news from any of his brother's contacts, and so the chance that this was new information to assist in his mission went down considerably in percentage, along with his amount of interest in whatever was inside.

The letter being new co-ordinates to meet up was unlikely, since texting seemed to go just fine for them so far with little to no detection (Despite Mycroft's distaste for the method of communication. He preferred calling over everything else). With that, Sherlock made another mental note amongst the thousands in his mind to procure himself a new phone. Wiping the history of the phone wouldn't be enough to hide him, so Sherlock had found many an early era cell phone passing through his hands in the last few months.

So, was it a personal message, outside of work?

This was unlikely as Sherlock had a hard time thinking of anything that could possibly be so important outside of this mission that Mycroft would contact him about-

Sherlock paused; mid step in the alley way that led to the abandoned, and previously described as inadequately heated, house which was his temporary lodgings.

John?

No… he had been particular that if anything were to go wrong with the ex-military Doctor, that Sherlock would be immediately pulled out and sent home, with no need for a secret meet up with all the extra details.

…

Family business?

His mind was already turning and twisting through memories before the question had even finished, looking for indication he may have missed whilst visiting his parents at their cottage on Boxing Day or some other ridiculous holiday they insisted on celebrating with their sons.

Any indication of illness…Of depression…

He looked for any kind of distress that the other members of the family had experienced, and had hidden from both of the brothers at the time. It felt entirely unlikely, but already Sherlock was looking cautiously through again and again, scouring those corridors of information and memory, trying to find something that he could have in any way, missed completely.

Perhaps…

By the time Sherlock had finished the thought of one particular possibility, he was already down the rest of the alley and in the only well hidden, comfy room in the abandoned house. A pocket knife sliced apart the opening of the envelope as carefully as a Jeweler would hold their chisel, despite the need in the detective to open it as quickly and viciously as he could if only to get his hands on the small slip of paper inside that would possibly hold the answer to his question.

Sherlock pulled out the folded letter and opened it in his hands; the decisively slanted left handed writing that his brother had taken upon during written correspondence finally divulging the information to him.

In code of course. And backwards.

Typical, this was the sort of communication they passed around to each other when they were boys, so of course Sherlock would be able to decipher it within seconds.

This meant a fast read, and an even quicker destruction of the letter and envelope altogether.

 **PFPQBO - FP - JFPPFKD.**

 **CXZQP - PL - CXO - XOB**

 **QEXQ - PEB - FP - FK -**

 **ILKALK.**

 **QELRDE - QEXQ - JXV - ZEXKDB.**

…

The cryptic words disappeared seconds later as a small flickering flame slowly turned the pristine paper into ash. The same glow was then used to light a rather well deserved cigarette.

After a few drags of tobacco and the relaxing effect on his mind, and Sherlock was pulling out the cell phone to text his reply.

 _So?_

Honestly of all the reasons to drag him out into what could have been a disastrous blowing of his cover, this was it? His brother was slipping in prowess if he felt it necessary to get him involved in this.

Perhaps it was too much time at the Diogenes club. That amount of effort put in ignoring someone, could lead to ignorance in general.

Especially if it meant that… this issue… was evading and getting the better of Mycroft enough that he felt the need to contact his brother, especially when he had most of England's not-so-secret service under his thumb (allegedly).

 _I'm too busy for your war tactics. Whatever you did this time, I suggest you just apologize._

He knew being this frank was going to result in yet more destruction mobile phones on both sides of the contact and perhaps going in the dark in the sense of communication for two or so weeks. Which was a shame; after all he had managed quite the high score in the snake game on this mobile.

But then again it was probably worth it for the chance to snide back at the brother that had caused his freezing hands today.

He wasn't expecting a reply, much less one so fast.

After all Mycroft did detest texting.

 _I haven't been in contact for the past year. If you can recall, I've been too busy as well for this sort of thing._

 _-Lazarus_

Sherlock took another long drag from the cigarette and deliberated over his reply. Eventually he raised the phone again and sent his last word on the matter.

 _I doubt this can be too difficult for you if London is the location. Update me when you manage to fix this._

With that, Sherlock removed the battery of the cell phone and proceeded to destroy the evidence that this communication device ever existed.

Honestly how difficult could it be for Mycroft to find anything, in London of all places?

* * *

 _ **Twenty two months after Berlin.**_

A decent shave and a haircut later, and Sherlock Holmes was starting to feel like himself again.

The merry band of the deceased Moriarty had been disbanded right down to the very foundations of its empire. Some had even been disbanded in more than one way, though Sherlock could barely argue with the laws in those countries, especially when considering their crimes.

It was not long after this feat had been managed, when Mycroft had called him home. And by calling home, that of course meant watching him get hounded down like a dog by the Siberian military and then beaten to a near pulp by a man who clearly had troubles keeping a successful marriage.

Speaking of failure…

"So, how goes the case?" There's a small silence in Mycroft's office, and because he can't help but be the immature younger brother at times, Sherlock continues , "The one you dragged me out to Berlin for a day and then for the next twenty months there's not even a mention or a glimmer of-"

"Nothing of coincidence has come up within the last five months, and nothing of absolute connection for the last thirteen months," Mycroft's dry tone was speckled with the kind of annoyance that one would have when managing to bang their toe against the edge of a table.

The elder brother handed Sherlock a manila file filled with that previously described as mostly inconsequential and barely connectable evidence of this case over the past twenty or so months. He flipped through it easily as he continued the conversation.

"Nothing? You must be truly slipping then Mycroft,"

"Middle age as I said Sherlock. In any case you're here now, and I take it you'll be willing to remove this responsibility from my shoulders?" Mycroft retained the same expression as he did at the prospect of mingling with strangers. Tell tale enough to the younger brother that this issue had been one that Mycroft had been hounded on since it began.

"Oh I'll deal with this for you then I guess Mycroft," Sherlock inspected his recent shave in the mirror before turning back to smirk with yet another witty remark, "After all I would hate to upset mummy like you've done,"

It was the easiest button to push when wanting to infuriate the older Holmes brother, and indeed Sherlock could already see the beginnings of frustration in his face, overriding the previous loathing for social interaction.

"If anyone right now is to blame for upsetting her it's-"

Sherlock chuckled as his pressing had worked, and handed back the file.

"Careful Mycroft, stress doesn't help with the cholesterol count," It felt great that after so many months he was still able to get on his brother's nerves like no one else.

Mycroft said nothing about the jibe, instead maintaining an expression of weariness that could only be developed over twenty plus years of dealing with his younger brother's presence.

"If you're quite finished brother mine, I believe there are places you need to be,"

* * *

 _ **Twenty two months, and three weeks after Berlin.**_

Sherlock smirked as his older brother pleaded with him through the cell phone, the end notes of 'Do You Hear The People Sing' blasting in the background of Mycroft's desperation.

Payback was never sweeter than this.

Well not so much payback as a return favor for all Sherlock had done for him in the past few days.

Which included and was not limited to, not only saving the members of Parliament but a good deal of civilians from a traitorous North Korean informant and their train compartment bomb. And thus in exposing that rat, saved a good deal of future British intelligence from being screened to outside enemy countries. Plus his assistance resulted in the success of a new Anti-terrorism Bill that would ensure further safety of the country.

Not only all that, but he also entertained their parents for an evening, so fair's fair.

Surely Mycroft could handle the plights of Jean Valjean in return.

Sherlock hung up the call when hearing approaching footsteps, turning to face his companion John Watson.

The last few weeks had been rather awkward between the two of them, which was true of any friendship after a fight. Though of course, not many friendships had one side pretending to be dead for two years whilst the other went and grew a horrid aging mustache.

Well, normal friendships anyway. A concept that Sherlock had yet to experience and hoped he never would. Either way, they seemed past that now (and thankfully rid of that dreaded mustache). Back to their usual ways of solving cases and blogging about them.

Though there was the issue of the new addition.

Miss Mary Morstan, or the soon to be Mrs. Watson once John managed to find the words and set a date.

Relationships were something that Sherlock had expected form John. Especially after all the Sarah's, Jenny's and Susan's that came and went during the first few years of living in the same flat together. What he hadn't suspected, was for the army doctor to manage a long lasting connection with a woman that went to full commitment.

After all, with his previous military background and reluctance to open up to his therapist, John Watson didn't seem like the type of man to Sherlock that made connections easily, and certainly not any long lasting ones.

Apart from the one he had with Sherlock himself of course.

So there had to be something about this woman, something that would attract the Doctor's attention more than the usual talks about cats and tax rebates and which celebrity had done what.

There was something about Mary. And Sherlock was very interested to find out what.

Regardless, for the moment the detective could easily deduce that Mary, for all her mystery and strange ways, was safe. And so as a result, John was safe with her.

The two walked into the lounge room of the apartment, where Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Mary were all waiting for them.

Lestrade being there only to get a full account of what had happened underneath the Parliament building before all the reporters downstairs could hear it. Though perhaps a warm cup of coffee before and after having to deal with the consulting detective wasn't too bad of a prospect either.

They chatted for a bit, something about knitting and tea from Mrs. Hudson though the detective wasn't sure since he often put the older woman on semi permanent mute whenever the small talk started.

A knock on the door alerted the group to the arrival of Molly and her new fiancé, Mrs. Hudson being particularly excited to meet the new man.

And the whole group seemed to be under the same agreement that the less said about his appearance… the better.

It was during the whole odd hand shaking and pretending to care for a millisecond that the rest of their day went well, that Tom managed to really gain his attention.

"Ah Mr. Holmes, some homeless person gave me this just before we entered the flat, said that it was important that you got it straight away?" The young man held out an object that he had been clasping gently in his hands into the detective's view.

A yellow rose, with a note tied firmly in between the thorns on the stem.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John steps a little closer, the rest of the room apparently gaining the clue that the arrival of this cut plant piece was something of an unexpected occurrence. And not only that, but also Sherlock seemed speechless for a millisecond.

Which in the consulting detective's mind, was an eternity of deducing the cut of flower, where it had been grown, where it was sold and when it was cut.

The detective snapped back to reality not a second later, and in a strange moment turned back to Lestrade.

"Detective Inspector, after I'm finished with the journalists I would like to report a missing person's case," Sherlock's tone was devoid of any kind of humorous tone (not that this was something that the consulting detective would ever joke about in the first place). The group at large just stared at him for a moment, their questions just beginning to form.

But Sherlock decided to deal with the hungry media first, those queries could wait.

With a few quick actions of handing the rose carefully to Mrs. Hudson and untying the note from the stem to take with him, Sherlock exited the room and walked down the stairs.

The small note, a thin card cutting against his hand with the severity that he gripped it, had the most careful and detailed letters printed across it.

 _E.H._

* * *

 **A/N: Please review, constructive criticism always welcome.**

 **(Psst. The cryptic message is a cipher code. Use a cipher wheel, H on the outer wheel = E on the inner.)**


End file.
